Lack of Sleep … and Elk

We were so beat by the time we reached the higher country, we couldn’t even imagine “bagging” something and having to carry it out.

Sleeping Beauty—Joe exhausted from climb

The elk must have read the Facebook message: “Urgent! Start of hunting season upon us. Run!”

You could see a herd of elk grazing lazily in a high alpine meadow in early August. You could come upon them along a wooded wilderness trail anytime during summer. You might even see one running right through your neighborhood (as I did a couple of years ago by our home, blowing right through stop signs) if you live at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. But come opening day of bowhunting season (this year August 30), they are nowhere to be found. How is that possible? Oh yeah, wapiti social media.

The scoreboard from the first weekend at elk camp didn’t look good for the home team. Of course, I guess that depends on whose home you are talking about. Elk 1, Hunters 0. It wasn’t from lack of trying—up at 3 a.m., hiking for miles in the dark through brutal terrain, wearing full camo clothing, and even spraying a bottle of elk urine on myself! Plus all the preseason practice, the expense, the time off work, the long drive to the camp, the lack of sleep, the effort to get to where you think the elk are. Meanwhile, the elk are holed up in a hotel room somewhere watching Red Box movies and ordering pizza.

My son-in-law, Joe, our good friend Bill, and I did all the right things right, but still struck out. I can say (in our defense) that we were in an unfamiliar area—not where I had hunted several years ago—so it might take a couple of visits to get the lay of the land. We actually did a lot more hiking than hunting, trying to get to good locations, most of which would have been best left to younger men—or mountain goats.

By the way, if you ever find yourself in the Salida, Colorado, area and someone suggests that you take the nice hike up to Bushnell Lakes, you should immediately beat that person senseless with your hiking stick. It all sounded so picturesque and full of big-game possibilities: two lakes well above tree line, connected by a waterfall, remote and uncrowded.

There is a reason no one goes there. After we had hiked three miles just to get to the trailhead junction, the real work began. The steep, rock-strewn “trail” climbed more than 2,000 feet in about 2.5 miles, mostly straight up, with few switchbacks. We were so beat by the time we reached the higher country, we couldn’t even imagine “bagging” something and having to carry it out. We enjoyed the views for a while, had a snack lunch, and napped in the shade of quaking aspens that applauded our effort with a gentle breeze. Downhill, back to the welcome sight of our SUV, was not much easier.

We are not done trying. Archery season lasts the whole month of September. We’ll get out again and pretend we have a ghost of a chance of success to provide fresh game meat for our starving families. With my track record, if I were an Indian, my tribe would soon be going extinct.

I’ll suffer through short, sleepless nights on a hard cot, with my tent mate snoring like a chain saw. I’ll endure the ridiculously long, cold hikes in the dark, headlamp dimming from overuse. I’ll sit for hours waiting for something to saunter by, then I’ll get excited by the crack of a twig nearby, only to discover that it is another hunter, or a free-range cow. I will deal with the crushing disappointment of another year of failure.

Wait … that hotel room with movies and pizza is sounding a lot better.​​More adventures